


Judicatrix

by FedonCiadale



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-03-01 05:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13287993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FedonCiadale/pseuds/FedonCiadale
Summary: Jon is the bastard son of Brandon of Winterfell who has earned himself a name at the court of Charlemagne. After almost 20 years, his father's widow, the judicatrix Catelyn invites him to Winterfell to be cleared of all suspicion on her husband's death and to settle the succession. Not having been to Winterfell since his sixth year, Jon is not eager to meet neither Catelyn nor his half-sister Sansa.





	1. In Rome

**Author's Note:**

> In a way this is a double historical AU. This is a retelling of a German novela (Die Richterin by Conrad Ferdinand Meyer), that is set in the time of Charlemagne. Since it is about a pair of half-siblings falling in love and the lords of the Castle are actually called 'wolves' and their heirlooms like cup and horn have wolf-designs, it gave me major Jonsa vibes. So, this is a historical AU set in the time of Charlemagne, but also a historical AU as an allusion to the naturalism of the end of the 19th century.  
> The lovely Jonsa people at tumblr persuaded me to give it a try....

Samwell tried not to gawk to openly. It was his first time in Rome, and he did not want to attract attention. Not that it was likely that a sole man from the North, even if he was well-off would be noticed. All the talk in the city was about the coronation that had taken place on Christmas day, and how splendid the new emperor Charles looked, even though it had happened three months ago.

_Sure, somebody will be in a good enough mood to sell books?_

Samwell was not accustomed to cities of any size. Compared to Chur, the only town he knew, Rome was confusing and loud. There were so many people that nobody commented on his raetian outfit that had earned him many a look on his way to Rome.

Samwell sighed. _First do what you came her for. You won’t enjoy the city anyway before you haven’t fulfilled your duty._

But how to find the courtiers he needed for both his errants?

Asking around where the emperor held court, he was informed that Charles was to mass in the Lateran. He got directions and arrived at place before the basilica just as mass started. A raucous group of young men speaking Frankish stood around the statue of a rider and they made jokes about the solemn looking rider.

“He would have a much better seat on his horse, if he had stirrups,“ a young man with a red beard snorted.

“Look at his calves! They look like the calves of a pig,“ someone else said.

“Imagine, he would need help to mount the horse.“

“What does he do with his arm anyway?“ another joked. “He probably wants to know if it rains.“

Samwell listened and tried to edge closer to the group. He felt awkward doing that, but they seemed to be courtiers, and exactly the men he needed.

Finally, Redbeard took note of him: “Hey, who are you? You look like someone from Raetia.“

Sam stood frozen for a moment. The Frankish words would not come at first.

“Indeed I am…“ he finally answered and winced inwardly about his palpable accent.

He smiled shyly. “I am the nephew of the bishop of Chur and he sent me to court to get some books.“

Redbeard laughed at that. “The bishop’s nephew? You mean his son.“

Samwell could feel how the blood flooded his cheeks. All the young men laughed when they took note of Sam’s reaction. This was not going well.

“Ah! I nailed that!“ The Redbeard said. _My father is not the only bishop to claim his son is not his son, but his nephew._ Samwell thought sullenly.

“Although you look more bookish than your valiant …“ Redbeard left a telling pause. “…‘uncle‘”.

That had them laughing again. Samwell tried to chime into their laughter to ease the mood. It was not as if he wasn’t accustomed to such teasing.

“And it is indeed books I’m after,“ he tried to approach his real errand.

“Surely not for the bishop? Does he even know how to read?“ Redbeard said.

Another burst of laughter followed.

“Does anybody of us know how to read?“ Redbeard continued.

That had them all cackling again. “We try our best to skip those lessons.“, a man with a lombard accent in his Frankish said.

Just when Samwell was about to give up getting a coherent answer from any of the young courtiers, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“They can keep on and on with this for hours,“ someone addressed him. “What kind of books do you need?“

It took Samwell a moment to realise that he had been addressed in raetic. He turned.

In front of him stood a young man about his own age, with a mop of dark curls. His clothing was that of a Frankish courtier, but his raetic was obviously that of a native speaker. At his side stood a huge white dog.

Samwell looked at him curiously, and saw a sword with a wolfshead pummel at his side and a horn at the other. “I need the newest works on mathematics by Alcuin himself.“ He said. “My un… I mean, the bishop’s archdeacon Aemon needs them.“ He blushed again.

The man gave him a genuine, if short smile. “I can help you. Come with me.“

Sam followed him. He had an inkling who was striding beside him and he said. “You’re Brandon’s son, Jon of Winterfell. You’re the one they call the white wolf, one of Charles‘ most famous warriors.“

Jon raised one of his eyebrows. “What gave me away? Ghost, my sword, or my horn?“ he asked. “I hadn’t realised I was that famous.“

Samwell laughed genuinely for the first time that day. “Your looks,“ he said.

“I saw your father’s statue in the chapel at Winterfell. He looks just like you.“

Jon snorted. “Then the mason must have taken his liking many years before he died.“

Samwell didn’t answer to that. His other errand laid heavily on his heart.

“I have Alcuin’s books on math and I’ll give them to you, if you promise that you return them, after you and the archdeacon have finished the copying.“

Jon led them to a tavern, the white dog at his heels, strangely silent. Although it was not yet full spring, the midday sun was warm, and only occasionally shadowed by a cloud, and they sat outside.

With a glass of wine in hand, Samwell tried to relax. Jon leaned back.

“It’s funny to hear my mothertongue. It has been years, since I’ve seen somebody from Raetia, not since my uncle Benjen died. Have you come just for the books or do you have other plans?“ Jon asked.

“„I have another errand,“ Samwell said , and decided not to beat about the bush.

“The Judicatrix has sent me to fetch her step-son. Catelyn of Winterfell wants to clear the succession now her daughter has come of age.“

Just as Samwell had feared, Jon was not pleased.

“What does she want?“, he said. “I’ve not been to Winterfell for almost twenty years. She must know, I don’t intend to stake a claim.“

“„But there is the issue of your father’s death. She wants to be cleared of all doubts, that still might cling to her name, so that her daughter might inherit peacefully.“ Samwell insisted. “You might know, that you don’t want Winterfell, but a bastard against a daughter is not a clear-cut case. If you publically give up your claim, there will be no doubt left.“

Jon scowled. “You’re ruining a perfect morning. I decided long ago to forego any accusation. I’ve heard the tale of my father’s death from my uncle Benjen. And believe me, my uncle Benjen – blessed be his memory - was not inclined to let Catelyn of the hook easily.“

“So, what do you know about your father’s death?“, Samwell prodded him.

“Do you want the unabashed truth?“ Jon asked.

Samwell nodded.

“Well, my father Brandon was known to have courted many a woman, if you put it nicely. My own mother Ashara was one of them. When I was seven, he dismissed her. She was ill, and he had no fun in her bed any longer…. Although that might have been his age as well…“ Jon scoffed.

“He courted the young, beautiful and healthy daughter of the Iudex Hoster, Catelyn, probably in the hope of rekindling his ardour in bed. They married, and three days later his new father-in-law was killed by Walder of the Twins. He went out to take revenge for Hoster and returned to Winterfell in triumph. His young wife awaited him, in her hand the wolf cup of our family.“

“She recited the old blessing that’s engraved on the cup, and drank half of it in welcome.“

Jon paused and waited for Samwell’s reaction.

“He came from an exhausting campaign. He had ridden hard and long.“ Samwell said.

Jon scoffed again. „He was lusting after his young wife, his heart couldn’t handle his eagerness. He was too old for all that exertion.“

“And then he took the wine, drank, and fell dead on the spot.“ Jon summed up.

“Believe me, if my uncle Benjen had suspected fool play, he would have accused Catelyn years ago. Everybody in that courtyard saw the blood has raised to my father’s face, everybody saw Catelyn drink at least half of the cup, everybody knows that there has been many a wolf of Winterfell who dropped dead with a stroke.“

He waved as if to shoo a fly. “Did I get that right? There is nothing to be sought.“

“Well, I see you have informed yourself in detail.“ Samwell said. _I guess, he is angry about his mother being dismissed. He doesn’t seem to have fond memories of his father._

Jon laughed. “You probably would have put it more delicately.“

Samwell felt embarassed, that Jon had read him so well.

Jon took a sip of his wine. “I have a place with king, I mean emperor Charles. I’ve fought against the Saxons for eight years now, and I earned a name. If I ask him the emperor will give me lands of my own. There is no need to cast out my father’s widow who’s done a splendid job of ruling Winterfell after everything I heard. I don’t need Winterfell. Let Winterfell belong to my sister, what’s her name?“

“Sansa“, Samwell answered. He could not help blushing, when he thought of the beautiful young woman.

Again, Jon proved himself to be observant. “That’s where the wind is blowing? Do you court her?“

Sam looked at his feet. “My uncle would like for me to marry her to join some of my family’s lands and Winterfell.“

“And she is such horrible sight, that you want me to come back to Winterfell and claim it?“ Jon teased.

Samwell felt very uncomfortable. “No, that is not…“, he stuttered. When he saw the other man smiling, he thought he might tell this bastard son of Brandon Stark about his qualms.

“My uncle…“ he began.

“Your father“, Jon interrupted.

Samwell sighed. “My father would like to add Winterfell to our lands. Not that he does not expect the Judicatrix to rule for many years to come. But he thinks in long terms. I don’t care really.“

“So you’re not inclined to marry my sister?“ Jon asked.

“She is very beautiful and very kind. I feel like I’m not worthy of her.“ Sam admitted.

Jon laughed. “You’re a young man. Catelyn might have been too much for my father, but you seem like a nice fellow. I’m sure you can win her over. Just out of curiousity? How old is Sansa now?“

“Eighteen.“ Sam answered.

“It’s a pretty name.“ Jon mused. A lone cloud passed the sun and threw a shadow on his face when he said that.

They sat for a while and Jon apparently liked talking in Raetic. Although Jon didn’t strike Samwell as the bookish type he was interested enough or polite enough to listen to everything Samwell had to tell about the archdeacon’s plan to enhance the library of Chur.

When they had finished their wine, Jon stood up abruptly. “We’d better hurry to get to the church before mass is over. If we are lucky, Alcuin will be ready to part of even more books and you won’t need mine.“

When they reached the church again, the courtiers had gone, but several men and women awaited the emperor on the place in front of the church.

Samwell was overawed when emperor Charles descended the stairs, and he didn’t need to be told who was the king. He sank to his knees and would certainly have forgotten about the letter in his pocket, if the emperor had not stopped just in front of Jon.

“Jon“, he greeted the young warrior, speaking Frankish. “Introduce me to your fellow countryman.“

Jon stood up. “This is Samwell, the bishop of Chur’s nephew, your majesty. He came to get books for their library.“

“Oh,“, the emperor said and waved to Samwell to stand up as well. “Did Randyll decide to become a scholar this late in life?“

Samwell again had the feeling that his language skills had fled him for a moment.

He tried to breathe slowly while he wondered about the very high voice of the emperor who easily towered over him and Jon. “No, your majesty, archdeacon Aemon wants the books.“

“I’ll task Alcuin to help you in this worthy endeavour.“ Charles said. He was about to proceed, when Samwell took all his courage and addressed him.

“Your majesty, there is something else.“ He fumbled with his tunic and finally fished out the letter, he had been told to bring. He passed it to the emperor.

“Catelyn, the Judicatrix, wants to settle the succession of Winterfell. She bids you to send Jon, known as the white wolf, to her to be cleared of all blame of her husband’s death and to publicly agree to her daughter Sansa as heiress.“

Samwell could see Jon scowling, his face was ablaze with anger and discomfort.

The emperor gave the letter to one of his attendants, who opened it and after reading with only slightly moving lips he summed up: “This is indeed an official request of the Judicatrix for her husband’s son to come to Winterfell and bring these pending law suits to an end.“

The emperor frowned. “Samwell, does this woman have an obsession with the law? The case of her husband’s death is almost twenty years ago. This is hardly a pending law suit when neither the late Benjen nor Jon here ever accused her.“

“Your majesty, the Judicatrix is indeed known for being very meticulous and strict with the law.“, the clerk attendant put in. “I hear the people call her Lady Stoneheart, because her judgement never errs.“

“Not in her hearing,“ Samwell said.

The emperor laughed, and it took Samwell a moment before he realised that his laughter was not meant for him.

Charles clapped Jon on the shoulder. „Rein in your anger, Jon. I have an errand for you. Go up North to Raetia, visit Winterfell, settle this matter, and while you’re there you might have a look if the Lombards are quiet.“

Samwell thought that the White Wolf looked very sullen, when he heard that.


	2. At the well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa at Winterfell gets a visitor, but not the one she eagerly awaited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is it, my next chapter of my Charlemagne AU. I found a way to give a nod to Theon/Jeyne, which was fun. I think it's so nice, that in the original novela are so many people who somehow remind me of ASOIAF characters... There is not equivalent for Hodor though. I still called him Hodor, though, when I had need of a stableboy.

The sun was glittering on the surface of the water, and reflected the gem stones on the ancient cup Sansa held in her hands to wash and polish it. Her dog, Lady, a breed that looked almost like a wolf, was grazing at her legs, and Sansa hummed to herself and occasionally talked to Lady.

Her mother, the lady of Winterfell and her uncle Brynden who served as her castellan, were out for the day to sit in judgement over several cases in the villages. Catelyn had a reputation to be a stern, unbribable, but also fair judge and there had been a rumour about a murder case. Sansa had the day to herself, and that meant that she could do some of the things her mother frowned upon.

One of her favourite pastimes was to polish the cup, but she almost never did it in the presence of her mother. She suspected that her mother knew her daughter took the wolf-cup when she was out, but this was never addressed. Sansa blamed her father’s early death for that.

“I know father drank from this cup before he died. But I think mother is superstitious,” she told her dog. “The wolf-ladies of Winterfell welcomed the lords for generations with this cup, and drank to their health and nothing ever happened.”

She fingered the cup as she had done many times before and bent down to show it to Lady.

“See there is a wolf on one side of the cup.” The finely sculpted beast had been worn down with the years. There was only a silver knob where once as Sansa was sure had been a snout with nostrils.

“And here are the words the lady has to speak to the homecoming wolf.” Sansa fingered the faded letters on the other side of the cup. “When Jon comes home I’ll great him with the cup and the welcome, just like all ladies of Winterfell did.” She read the letters again and wondered, if she could say them to her brother.

_Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Jon came today? If he would come before mother is back, I can come to know him just on my own. When, when will he come?_

She filled water in the cup and raised it to the imaginary guest. She knew the words by heart. She closed her eyes to picture the brother she had never seen. “Wolf lord, welcome! Enjoy the wine, enjoy the feast, enjoy the bread, enjoy the mead, enjoy the song, enjoy!”

Sansa’s solemnity suddenly broke apart when Lady barked. _He is here, he has already arrived._

Her heart beat erratically in anticipation and she turned, fully expecting to see the dark-haired warrior Samwell had described to her on his last visit. But the man who stood at the gate of the castle was of middle age. At his side was a young lad of about 14 years. The man’s clothing was not the fine quality Sansa would expect of a courtier of Charles and the man and the boy wore Lombard clothing. Neither could be Jon.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. The Lombards were not on best terms with Winterfell. Occasionally they raided and pillaged amongst Winterfell’s vassals. But her lady mother’s retribution was always swift and efficient. No Lombard would dare to attack Winterfell’s daughter in her own home. And a single man would be disposed of easily. The young son at his side spoke of a different purpose.

She had Lady in any case. Sansa put the cup beside the well and with a pounding heart walked closer to the strange guest and ordered Lady to her heels. The dog obeyed immediately.

“Who are you? What do you want?”, Sansa asked. She noticed that the man had a scar at his chin that split his chin.

“You must be Dagmar, the cleftjaw,” she said. _Be strong and brave, don’t let him see you’re frightened by his sudden appearance._

And she managed. Her voice was firm with the authority she had seen in her mother. “You’d better have genuine business here. I know you as a Lombard raider and robber. You’re one of Theon’s liegemen.”

The Cleftjaw cackled at her, but soon thought better of it, when Lady began to growl. He gave a quick bow.

“Daughter of Winterfell, I propose a bargain that might be to your liking,” he said.

Sansa crossed her arms over her breasts. “I am listening,” she said.

“Do you love your brother?”, the Lombard asked. “Would you be sorry to hear something befell him?”

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat. “Why do you ask? If you have hurt him, you’ll rue the day!” she exclaimed.

The Lombard seemed to be satisfied with her reaction. He chuckled again.

“I see, you love your brother. Have no fear. He is safe and sound. He is just an honoured guest at Theon’s court.”

“An honoured guest?”

“Theon might be persuaded to part with his guest for the right prize.”

Sansa snapped her fingers and Lady stood alert. The cleftjaw eyed the dog warily.

“Stop beating about the bush.” She scowled at the man. “Speak clearly!”.

“Your brother spied on us. But he grew careless, when he left our camp, and we caught him and his beast of a dog. He would not say who he was, and we were about to execute him, but Jeyne recognized the horn at his hip, and the sword at his side.”

Sansa would not have believed him, but the Lombard produced a red ribbon.

“Jeyne told me to show this to you, that you would recognize it.”

Sansa took the ribbon and fingered it. It was fine silk. Samwell’s father had made a gift of this to her, some years ago, when the warlike bishop had been a guest at Winterfell. Sansa remembered that she had given the ribbon to her playmate Jeyne, because the red had looked terrible in her own auburn hair. The little dove she had stitched on the ribbon for her friend was there. Jeyne had worn the ribbons the day she had been off to marry Theon. Not that the marriage had done anything to reduce the bad blood between Winterfell and the Lombards like Lady Catelyn had hoped, but at least Jeyne seemed to like her adventurous husband.

She handed it back to the Lombard. “I recognize it. Carry on!”

“Jeyne told everybody that the spy we caught must be Jon, Brandon’s bastard and that Lady Sansa who talks about her valiant brother since she first heard stories about Emperor Charles’ and his warriors, would pay a royal ransom for him.”

Sansa felt the blood raise to her face. She really loved her playmate, but it was not Jeyne’s place to talks so freely about the secrets of her heart. When they had been girls, they had whispered into each other’s ears in the middle of the night, and had shared secrets, girl secrets, and some of that talk seemed foolish to Sansa now. Sansa had retold all the tales she had heard about Jon and confided into her friend, that anybody who wanted her heart would at least have to be as courageous as her brother. Jeyne teased her about that repeatedly. It was well known, that Lady Catelyn and bishop Randyll had long decided that a match between Sansa and Randyll’s bastard would be advantageous. And Samwell as nice as he was, was certainly not a valiant man.

She willed herself to be calm. “What exactly do you mean by royal ransom?”, she enquired.

The Cleftjaw scrutinized her. “Jeyne told everybody that you have an impressive amount of jewellery. And the Lombard women would like some trinkets.”

Sansa looked in his eyes, and schooled her face, like she had seen her mother do. _Breathe in, breathe out. Count to five. Then answer._

“What kind of surety would you give me that Theon hands over my brother once he has my jewellery?”, she asked.

The Cleftjaw gave a grin. “My youngest here would stay here at Winterfell until your brother arrives here.”

Sansa looked at the skinny lad. It was a risk, but who but Jeyne could have sent that ribbon, and who could wear the wolf-blade of Winterfell and the horn but Jon. She would not trust this cleftjaw as far as she could spit, but if she wanted her brother in Winterfell, she would have to risk it.

She heard her mother’s voice in her head. _You can be uncertain about a decision but never let anyone see that. They will come at you, a woman, if you’re insecure too often._

She decided quickly. She would get her brother.

“Hodor,” she called. The big stable boy, who topped her by two heads and had the neck of an aurochs came.

He looked frightening although he was as gentle as a lamb.

Sansa grabbed the lad’s arm. “What’s your name,” she asked.

“Rudio,” the lad answered.

“You give me your oath that you will not try to flee?”

The lad nodded, and Sansa instructed Hodor to have a look at the Cleftjaw and the lad and told Lady to watch them. _Lady will be better at this than Hodor, but they don’t need to know that._ Hodor’s muscles were impressive.

Then she turned and ran as fast as her feet would carry her, as if the speed of her run would bring Jon faster to Winterfell and to safety. She entered her chambers and opened the chest with her necklaces, the bracelets, the rings, everything. She put them into a cloth with a white wolf she had stitched as a welcome gift for Jon and hoped that this additional blessing would mean freedom for her brother. She bundled everything up and ran back.

When she arrived in the courtyard and showed the pieces to the Lombard, the Cleftjaw was very impressed. The jewellery glittered in the sun and the Lombard licked his lips and stared with round eyes.

“A royal ransom indeed,” he finally said.

“Every piece is well spent, if my brother is free within the fortnight, but if you do not honour your word, I’ll call upon Brynden the Blackfish and bishop Randyll and they will bring you down, wherever you and your robber friends will hide. Be warned. The Emperor will be coming to Chur before long.”

“The Bastard of Winterfell will be safe at his loving sister’s side before the moon has turned full.” The Cleftjaw raised his right arm and stretched three fingers towards heaven in the traditional gesture of swearing and gave his solemn vow.

 


	3. Judgement of a murderess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn of Winterfell sits in judgement on an unusual case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brynden is the maternal uncle of Catelyn here... I couldn't make him the paternal uncle or he would have inherited under the law of the 9th century.   
> It might look like a chapter that leads away from Jon and Sansa, but this is important. You will see, hopefully.... I mean I don't have enough time to write fic at the moment.

The work for the day was done, only one case was left. Brynden looked at Catelyn’s face. Like every time his niece sat in judgement her face was as if chiselled in stone, just like the statue she had prepared to lie on her grave in the crypts in Winterfell. Brynden had long given up of trying to detect his happy young niece in the face of the judicatrix. The niece who had giggled with her younger sister Lysa, now long in her grave. The lively young girl who had played pranks on the unlucky stern-faced wandering scholar her father had engaged to teach her. That had been before his brother-in-law had been killed in a feud, before Catelyn’s husband of a fortnight had taken revenge for his father-in-law and Brynden had not seen that Catelyn again. At days like this, he wondered if his niece felt anything, or if the name ‘Stoneheart’ she had earned for herself held all the truth. Her hair was pinned at the back of her head in a tight braid, emphasizing her fine features, but also the sternness. No fancy hairdressing for Catelyn.

The eldermen of the village brought forward a middle-aged woman, who stood with lowered head before his niece. Catelyn waved to the eldermen to explain the case, the quickness of the movement the only indication that she was becoming impatient with today’s sitting.

“Mylady, we all have known our good seamstress Lysa for decades and know her to be an honest woman.” Brynden gave a start at the familiar name, but Catelyn was unfazed.

“She’s raised her son to be a good man. Matthew is now a smith at the bishop’s court in Chur. A fortnight ago she suddenly accused herself of having killed her husband, the smith Martin, who drowned twenty years ago in a sudden flood after heavy rainfall.”

Catelyn scrutinized the woman, her voice had a hint of kindness, Brynden was not accustomed to hearing.

“Look at me, Lysa, and tell me.”

The woman raised her head and looked at the Lady of Winterfell.

“You know already, mylady, you tell them. I saw you looking at me. I know you saw through me, through all my so-called honesty. Every time you were her, you would look at me. I know you just didn’t say anything for Matthew’s sake.”

Catelyn sighed. “So, you did not love your husband?” she asked.

The woman shook her head.

“A smith is a strong man, did he beat you?,” she asked.

The seamstress Lysa lowered her head.

“You sought consolation with another man.” Catelyn stated.

The silence of the woman spoke volumes.

“Your husband found out and threatened to kill you and the child that was not his,” Catelyn continued.

The woman nodded.

“So, what did you do?”, Catelyn asked. “If you want to confess, we have to hear it from your own mouth.”

The woman’s voice was at first almost unintelligible but picked up while telling her tale. She looked up at Catelyn’s face as if there was no other person in the room.

Apparently, the woman had poisoned her husband with foxglove. The man had been complaining about an aching breast and anguished breathing but had gone out in the heavy rain anyway after some sheep. He had been found the next day, apparently drowned in the sudden flood that had come after the rain. The seamstress was convinced that her poison had done him in.

When the woman had finished with her softly spoken confession the sudden noise was almost unbearable. Brynden could hear some men saying that Martin had been a good man, some were voicing doubts, if the poison or the flood had killed him, some were speculating on the yet unnamed lover of Lysa.

Catelyn raised her hand and the hall fell silent.

“Was your lover an accomplice in your crime?” she asked.

The seamstress shook her head.

“He died of a festering wound soon after Martin, even before my Matthew was born.”

That had the tongues wagging again, and Brynden could make out some names, but Catelyn raised her hand again.

“You stand accused only by your own words,” she said.

“But it was my intention to murder him. I must be punished.”, the seamstress insisted.

Catelyn nodded. “You have it right, intention can be punished, even if the poison did nothing and it was the flood that killed him, but there is another problem.”

She made another pause to wait for speculations to die down.

“A score years has passed. You are beyond worldly judgement. The time for prosecution has passed. No worldly judge will condemn you.”

Several people audibly drew their breaths in. The seamstress herself protested.

“But I want to be punished. I want to atone for my guilt. Are you telling me, that there is no guilt? I tried to murder him! Are you telling me, that twenty years less one day I would have been judged as a murderess and the day after I go free? That is ridiculous. This is not the kind of justice you usually distribute in your lands, judicatrix.”

“After so many years it is all between you and the Almighty,” Catelyn said. Her face was not unkind when she looked at the seamstress who seemed to be close to tears.

“I doubt that punishment would rid you of your guilt. I suggest you take on the robe of a penitent and go to Chur. There you can make a confession to bishop Randyll or to the archdeacon Aemon. They’ll set you a penance, and it might well be that this might ease your conscience.”

Brynden could see that not all the village people were happy about this. He heard some indistinguishable murmuring, but it never became loud enough to be counted as an upheaval. When Lysa had been put into a hair shirt and insisted on walking on bare feet, several of the women were crying.

Catelyn told the seamstress to kneel and put her hands on her head.

“May you be able to find peace after your penance. I think that you showed great strength confessing when nobody ever suspected you of your crime.”

As always Catelyn had somehow managed to find a solution most agreed to.

When they were on horseback again on their way back to Winterfell, Brynden saw the ghost of a smile on Catelyn’s lips.

“How did you guess?” he asked.

She seemed startled. “What?”, she asked back.

“That her husband probably was a brute? Happens often enough,” she said.

“All these people wondering about who her lover was.” She barked a laugh that had no joy in it. “They should have wondered how she knew about foxglove.”

“It is a common enough flower,” Brynden said. “I remember being warned about it several times in my youth. Your teacher back in Riverrun claimed that it could also work for the good, if given in small doses to people with a heart-disease.”

Catelyn frowned. “He was always talking about doses and proportions. He should have given attention to more important things, like how to look where to put his feet.”

“That was harsh, Catelyn” Brynden remarked. “Anybody could have fallen in that icy night.”

Catelyn shrugged. “Maybe, but he fell, and he broke his neck and all his herblore was for nothing.”

She spurred her horse, when the gate of Winterfell came into view, and Brynden had trouble keeping up with her. A streak of her auburn hair had come lose and was picked up by the wind.


End file.
